


holocene

by aosc



Series: I’ve been down the open road [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-30 09:39:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10874109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/aosc
Summary: You took a room and you settled in, washed off the chalk from your weathered skin. Daylight sleeper, bloody reaper.There’s an often dusty and bloodied man with a seemingly unlimited supply of gil who’s taken to one of the Leville’s bottom floor, far end single rooms.





	holocene

**Author's Note:**

> hoo, boy, this was meant to be one thing... and became another. and circa 6,000 words longer than planned. explanation at the bottom, so as to not spoil anything. summary line from fleet foxes' the plains / bitter dancer.

* * *

He knows better than to ask questions.

 

That was a thing taught early. The Leville is a very presentable establishment in the heart of a pulsating city - with commendable service, modern furnishing, and a warmly recommended breakfast buffet. Its staff is either from the neighboring boroughs, or from the town itself, or from faraway, but nonetheless meticulously educated in the area and its practices, in the people who come to stay, and the people who filter through the town, on their way seaward. You do ask questions - but only the correct ones.

 

Twenty long years in the business have certainly taught him better.

 

The day is a typical one, sticky with the mid-summer heat and slow like stalling in tar; typical in its stillness. Not many mill through; Lestallum, at the height of day and at summer’s solstice, is sparsely populated, people having abandoned its whetted pave stones for the arches of forested hills down below the city.

 

The early cleaning staff have filed out for the day. At the moment, he is alone, the lone attendee scheduled until people begin returning to civilization at late noon, around three or three thirty. He usually mills about, tends to what is most pressing at the moment: maintaining the lone phone line. Checking on the iced water along the far wall. Wiping down the front counter, spotless now. Scheduling new floral arrangements to be delivered Thursdays and Sundays. Pick out an assortment of local activities for the family of five coming along in two days’ time to busy themselves with.

 

He looks up the moment he spots the scurry of a shadow approaching in his peripheral, an odd thing given the hour.

 

The “Welcome to the Leville, How may I – “ stutters briefly on his tongue, but not enough to, thankfully, be overly noticeable. “How may we be of service today,” he finishes, to the newcomer who's now stopped just before the counter.

 

The newcomer’s eyes are bruised with restless or little sleep. His dark attire is caked with nature’s residue, no doubt having been showered, by the looks of it, by a temperamental fit of rain just last night, and slept on a spot on the ground. His boots have tracked in a fair amount of dirt. They’ll have to have that seen to before the guests start filing in, he notes, privately. The newcomer carries a small linen pack with him; just large enough for the bare essentials, probably.

 

“Are there any rooms available to book for a few nights?” asks the newcomer, his voice gravelly and scratchy, as though it’s either been used sorely little, or a little too much. He suspects that it is most likely the former, rather than the latter.

 

“I'll imagine so. What sort of accommodations would suit your needs?”

 

“Just something – cheap,” says the stranger swiftly. “I – nothing fancy needed.”

 

He nods, and reshuffles a stack of recently turned in keys, the rooms to which are very much available. “Will you be joined by another, or by a larger party, or will you require only a single bed?”

 

Though of course he can’t be sure – the stranger seems to stiffen, if only for the briefest of seconds, something darkening across the cuts of his face. “No,” he says, and shakes his head. His eyes, light, guarded, shutter behind pronounced lashes. “I’m – I’m alone. A single’ll be great. Thanks.”

 

His interest, usually tempered by travelers by the loving pair, or by the quartet, usually two lesser and two larger in the case of the latter, has definitely been piqued. But, the job requires nothing but attentively mild manners. There is nothing in it to satisfy the odd bout of curiosity that may overcome you at times. He nods, “Certainly, Sir. If you could turn over some base information for me, we’ll see to settling you in immediately.” He slides the standard customer form over the counter. “May I ask if there are any additional requests pertaining to your room?”

 

The stranger seems to hesitate. He looks at him, again – the slant of his script, neat and titular, breaking the line evenly, as though the characters had already been pre–written. The smooth, unmarred skin beneath the chalk and dirt of the outdoors. The stranger can hardly be older than twenty five, at the most. Hunters at that age is – uncommon, to say the least. Lone hunters, no less.

 

“If you have one – I’d like a bottom floor room,” the stranger says, after a short while in silence. He doesn’t look up from where he’s still filling out the form.

 

The rattle of the keys beneath the palm of his hand is quiet – he shuffles them about. 3F, at the far twist of the left corridor, in the belly of the building, is since this morning empty, and remains temporarily unbooked for as long as the current season stands. “At the very back of the establishment, Sir,” he confirms.

 

The stranger looks up. Those eyes again, alert, on his person. “That’s great,” he adds to his glance, as if his words become supplied only on afterthought, as though he isn’t quite used to human interaction, and thus never uses them. The stranger slides the form across the counter again, the bottom signed with his tilted signature.

 

He glances down, only briefly, to scan the sheaf of paper down. The numbers titling the stranger's birth date have been deconstructed and rewritten, he notes. Nothing out of the ordinary – of course; one’s mind can certainly slip, mid-title. The name is a little regal, though birthplace does spell out Insomnia, the capital, and if there is one place of such regality, that would be it. Nothing noteworthy, otherwise, springs to mind, so he shuffles it to the side of the keyboard, and begins entering in a few commands in the booking system.

 

“The rate is 100 gil per night,” he informs the stranger, “How many nights do you wish to reserve?”

 

“Is there a minimum or maximum?” asks the stranger.

 

He shakes his head. “One night would be the bare minimum, I suppose,” he says, and smiles lightly.

 

The stranger nods. Something resembling a tilt of mouth overcomes him. “I suppose. I’m not sure of how long I’ll be staying, but it is nice to just – stay, for a while. A week, at least, or two, if that’s – ?”

 

“Certainly.” He taps the number of days into the calendar spots on the screen. “At any time you wish, we can lengthen or shorten your preferred stay.”

 

The stranger nods. “Yeah, that’s – perfect. Thank you.”

 

“Thank you, Sir. If you may sign the confirmation, I’ll swap you for the room key, and we’ll be all done here.” He passes the newly printed booking confirmation across the counter. An endless conversation in ink, moving only across the mahogany between them. Such is his life.

 

The stranger tilts his head in affirmation, and scrawls another quick signature across the line with a pen he’s procured out of nowhere, or own pocket.

 

“Room 3F. Go down this room, turn a left behind the left staircase, and follow the farthest corridor until you reach its end. The placates should direct you accordingly.”

 

The stranger thanks him quietly, raspy, and takes care to only touch the cool metal of the key, as it is passed between them. His clad hand is, as well as the remainder of him, dusty with wear and the road. He turns from the counter, only a shadow as he walks, silent as though nothing came at all, and disappears behind the twist of the staircase. He leaves a faint trace of dust behind, prints of his thick soled boots that confirm that there indeed had been somebody there.

 

*

 

The Leville is not a very big place, though it boasts quite a larger number of rooms and can hold an impressive maximum of guests in total. During low season, he usually keeps an eye out for most of them. He knows vaguely of their habits: what the two gentlemen at the top floor eats for breakfast, when the family of four manage to shuffle their youngest out of the doors in the morning, when the two pairs who travel together come in to freshen up for the evening, and what they will subsequently leave for, at dinnertime.

 

He catches the stranger only during erratic hours. At times, he doesn't show for two days, and comes in during the height of midday on the second day of absence, a sleeve torn open, or a leg, peeking a wound that is bound tightly with strips of fabric. His expression is closed off, leaving far too much to the open imagination – but he always stops to briefly greet the staff currently on the clock. He appreciates that, he finds, given that the stranger doesn’t seem to throw words around very carelessly.

 

He never asks whether the stranger is fine, or whether he shouldn’t get that looked at - that would be asking the wrong questions of someone who would rather keep his business private, he’s concluded. And, after all, the hunters who rack up bounties and actually manage to do a fair noticeable difference for the community, are rare and far in-between. He shan’t trouble anyone who helps the region in such troublesome situations, putting himself in peril for, largely, people he will never know nor interact with.

 

He often offers the stranger a brief chat pertaining to the weather, and urges him to have some iced water, given the heat.

 

The stranger inclines his head. “It _is_ hot,” he admits.

 

He nods. “Very. During this hour it’s best to remain indoors. The architecture is built to soak up some of the heat, but I’m afraid it’s a tight squeeze between being cooked alive, and noticing that our surroundings are actually taking some of the temperature off us.”

 

The stranger actually chuckles, and looks, for a flush second, as though he finds the comment to his tastes. “Yeah,” he says, “I always manage to come here during the worst season. Though it is kind of nice during evenings.”

 

“Ah, you’ve been to Lestallum before?”

 

The stranger, who has, for once, accepted a glass of water, condense making it slippery and dripping on the carpet, mouths at it before humming his consent. “A few times,” is all he says.

 

He opts to leave it at that.

 

*

 

He’s enjoying a secluded spot of unusual shade when the stranger stilts into the courtyard, three days later. He’s certainly not at liberty to question the guests, especially not when they come to you, three days in advance, and deposits a week’s worth of pay for the room they’re currently staying in, as insurance.

 

“In case I – “ the stranger hesitated, “I’d like to keep the room, but I’m not going to be in for a few days.”

 

He nodded slowly. “Allow me to fetch an envelope,” he said, and turned from the counter. He thumbed through a few already used ones, worn around the edges and bulging with contents. In a freshly minted box he managed to find a few still unused. They’d need a refilling of medium sized envelopes, he noted, and told himself he’d file the order when the stranger had gone.

 

The bills had the look of being sparsely spent, as the stranger procured them from his lithe pack. Though slightly crumpled, they were considerably fresher than those he was used to receiving. The stranger counted briefly, before handing over a width’s worth of them, along with his room key.

 

“Do you wish for housekeeping to maintain your room whilst you are out?” he asked. Word travels fast within a lodging establishment, and he’d heard that the stranger always put the sign out for peace. Nonetheless, it never hurt to ask.

 

The stranger shrugged a little. “I suppose,” he said. “Just – well, it’s not spot free in there. And I have some stuff laying around.” He looked vaguely apologetic. At what was no doubt seeing his questioning glance, the stranger supplied, “Hunting’s not exactly PG–13.”

 

Weapons, was his first thought. He nodded. “Not to worry. It’s probably nothing we have not seen before, given the times we live in.”

 

The stranger looked as though he’d liked to object, but didn’t. “Thanks,” was all he offered.

 

On his way out, he stopped briefly in the maw of the doors, standing ajar for the early morning breeze, whatever little comfort it actually offered. “Hope the heat doesn’t keep people out,” he said. “This place deserves to be a bit more crowded.”

 

Before he could thank him for the – rather unexpected, praise, the stranger was out the door, steps void of much sound, as always.

 

Work did keep him, as it does, and he had not had much time to spend much thought on the lone hunter, though you do notice your more – odd, customers. Especially when they’re not there, rather than when they actually are.

 

His gait is slightly impaired, he notices, and he walks as though unsure of whether he’ll manage the next step beyond that, one slow at a time until he reaches the confines of the fountain in the midst of the plaza. He gingerly sits down, and unshoulders his pack. From it he draws a tinted glass flask. The stranger regards it for a few moments, before he breaks it in the flat of his palm. The contents, at first glance liquid, at second airborne, disappears in a whiff of pale colored smoke.

 

He thinks that this is a moment he has no right to intrude on – but doesn’t have the time to turn around and busy himself with righting the gingham checkered tablecloths, before the stranger’s head snaps up and towards him. The young hunter, from what he can discern, nods shortly, and stretches before he gets to his feet.

 

“Everything all right, sir?” he asks, as the hunter shuffles over from the perch of the fountain. He retains a slight limp, and a slim incision has bled slightly down his cheek to cake at the cut of his mouth. The dark hair, ending ragged just beneath his ears, is slicked back from his face. He notes that this much of the stranger’s face, he’s never really seen; the regal cheekbones, unusually blue eyes, the slim, perpetually drawn brow. The hunter looks like someone long forgotten – an itch that settles at the base of the frontal lobe, impossible to scratch.

 

“It’s – fine,” says the hunter, tilting his head slightly askew. His backpack is limp in his left hand, his right leg taking the blunt of his weight so that he stands ever so lightly leaning sideways. “How’re things – business?”

 

He inclines his head. “It remains, is what it does. Continually needing to be tended to,” he gestures toward the tables, the rooftops, for the time being, providing decent coverage from the already sweltering sun that bathes the plaza in a haze of quivering heat, “If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll fetch you something to drink.”

 

The hunter – considers, for a moment, as he does with the most mundane of requests: _why don’t you drink a little water_ ; _should your room be tended to_ ; _do you require housing_? They are simple questions that always seem to draw him towards the brink of denying himself. No matter what the question may be, it seems, as long as they intrude on the subject of the hunter’s personal comforts, the answers seem to evade him to no end. Eventually, he agrees, with a stilted nod, and makes his way toward the table that is the closest to the corner, and which has, incidentally, the most accessible passage routes both inwards, into the hotel lobby, and outwards, a spring away from leaping out and onto the hot pavement of the plaza’s midst. Here, the hunter can view the entirety of his surroundings, something that seems to please him, however little it actually shows on his features.

 

He thanks properly once the highball, topped up with crushed ice and spring water and leaking condense, is put before him. Properly, which means in a stiff set of manners seeming as though a particularly bothersome, different, face the hunter puts on: a Crown City upbringing that has been lost to time, and to other cultures. He waves the _thank you_ s away, and retreats slowly from the scene, reverts to the chores that still remain, the sun that bakes on his shoulders and back once he retrieves the broom and goes back to sweeping the steps.

 

For a while, they remain like this: the hunter reaches, at some point, for one of the local papers lying hurriedly folded on one of the neighboring tables, and spreads it languidly over his own. He skims quickly, but thoroughly – at times putting a fingertip to the sentences, and following along as he reads. Sometimes he rereads, finger meandering upwards several times, as though he’s rewriting the author’s already written piece, correcting chunks of it and replacing them for himself.

 

“Excuse me – is this the only newspaper edition that’s out here?”

 

He almost startles, deeply rooted in his own thoughts, outlines of the day fading from his active thoughts, regrouping and folding themselves at the very back of his mind. He turns to face the young hunter. Before him is the paper, now once more neatly folded to a packed rectangular square in the midst of the table. He considers the question. “I could certainly point you in the direction of a shop who sells other periodicals, but I’m afraid nothing much about the Crown City reaches these parts. Mostly, it’s farmer’s magazines, local pamphlets, and the Lestallum Viewpoint, as you have it there before you. A few faraway editions make it, on the occasion: we do get the Galdin Beacon whenever the season is right for people to start passing between the towns. And, if it’s past editions of anything local you’re looking for, there’s always the library. It’s quite a small establishment north from here, but it does keep a more than adequate news archive.”

 

The hunter looks piqued: not as though he’s dissatisfied, but as though he’s having a difficult time deciding whether to be so or not. He chews, in a bout of almost childlike indecision, on his bottom lip. A few of his fingers go into his hair, slicking it back. The dust and the grime that remains unwashed makes it stick, lopsided over one side of his skull.

 

“How many years back are the archived editions kept accessible?” he asks.

 

“I couldn’t say, I’m afraid. But quite a few. It’s nice – for such a comparatively small town to keep track of its history and doings, so I’d imagine as far back as is possible. Just ask the staff and they should be able to help you retrieve anything you wish for.”

 

The hunter nods, slowly. His index finger circles a wet imprint the glass has made on the tabletop. “…Thank you,” he says, slowly, “I might just do that.”

 

*

 

During certain nights, once he locks all the cabinets and shuts the door to the staff room behind the front desk, placing the sign out for any guests to ring the tabletop bell in case they require anything, he occasionally spots the young hunter on the steps outside.

 

In the light of the moon, usually bright above the power plant, his legs are stretched out before him, small of back pressed into the stone of the next step.

 

Mostly, he’s alone, exuding the ease which one who is used to only enjoy the company of oneself does, when they happen upon a spot of seclude and quiet. But sometimes, a stray mutt or two flock to him. Grey and white – loping things that fade with the night and melt into the shadows.

 

There, under the wavering spot of the night’s ruddy light, occasionally they find the hunter. Or, sometimes he finds them – but the gravity with which these strays, shunned by the ordinary townsfolk, seem pulled toward the young Insomnian, is a source of wonder, because it is always the animal that approaches the man.

 

*

 

Once upon a time, the city of Insomnia housed a great royal dynasty. The Caelums were famed for how they ruled Lucis with just, deft hands, and for their magic. Those who made the trip – and actually could venture into the capital city, who visited its upscale boutiques and rode city-slithering trams into the heady rush of the immigrant-populated lower quarters, could also speak of visiting the Royal Palace. While the upper, populated floors were warded off for citizens, and the throne room only available on certain dates, emptied out and void of its inhabitants, at times, one could glimpse a member of the Kingsguard, or even as much as the Prince himself.

 

The King oft appeared on domestic broadcasts, but was rarely seen out, due to the circumstances of his illness. The Prince was a tad easier to spot out, they told – accompanied by a guard detail and a party of three, but nonetheless not a man confined to the seclusion of only the royal gardens. He drew mixed opinions on the regular, but was nonetheless the lone heir, and the majority of people much cared for the continuation of the Caelum dynasty. He wasn’t unkind; in fact, he wasn’t of much publicity at all. Dutifully, he appeared in print or on television when it was required of him, but he was not very talkative, and he didn’t actively seek to be seen.

 

So perhaps this is the main reason it was so shocking to receive news of the Prince breaking the Insomnian customs border, driving out into the countryside in the King’s vehicle, only to disappear entirely. It was the largest and most dire news of that time, and scarcely naught else was reported on. Tip lines filled up until they were stuffed full, and nobody could get through, with people from all over Lucis claiming to have spotted the heir somewhere in Cleigne, or laying low in Duscae, or having been ambushed in the Myrlwoods by the nighttime daemons, never to be seen again.

 

This went on, until other news broke, of another matter that would overtake what fate had befallen the Prince: the invasion of the Crown City by the Empire.

 

It prompted so much direct attention that when eventually, once the smoke dissipated, and the dead were counted, and laid to rest, and the Insomnian news outlets were overtaken by Imperial officials, the news of the Prince’s disappearance had all but been swept beneath a proverbial carpet.

 

And, when people cared to look again, he simply remained exactly what he’d been before the invasion, before the shift in rule, in power – gone.

 

*

 

The Imperial patrols had started coming, on a day just like any else.

 

He is just coming on his morning shift, relieving a colleague from the early dawn and the night shift, when a metallic clang rings out across the courtyard. At first, he dismisses it as generic noise from the power plant. At times, it bleeds into the jostle of any ordinary day’s noises.

 

But it settles into a jerky cadence, and it is coming closer. He frowns, and rounds the front desk. It’s an overcast day, though hot, as always. And through the shivering, hot air, it’s easy to discern the troop that marches through the stuffy alleyway on the far end of the plaza, coming the Leville’s way.

 

He’s read of the engineered troops from the Empire; led by men, certainly, but in vast majority made up by these mechanical, iron-clad troopers whose faces are generically the same, their gait the same, uneven and inhuman in how they walk. It doesn’t change anything – not when they march up beside the fountain, a slither of pairs behind one man whose walk is smoother, quieter. He counts six soldiers and the lone squad leader.

 

Just beneath the steps, the party stops abruptly. The squadron leader leaves them there, the baking sun surely cooking on the metal plating of the troopers’ shoulder pauldrons and ideal-length arms.

 

He, himself, is human. A tall, looming shape of slim muscle and multiple visible weapons strapped across him: in his belt, on his back, a long rapier handle poking up at his left hip.

 

“May I speak with the establishment’s director?”

 

His accent is regal, and sharp, much alike that of the Emperor himself. He clears his throat. “There’s no director in at the moment, I’m afraid. I can certainly pass on a message – “

 

“That won’t be necessary,” interrupts the soldier, frostily, “The Empire wishes to relay a message: three rebels of the new Imperial government have recently passed through the Norduscaean blockade, leading into the region. Their capture is a top priority of the army, and we wish for the residents of the city to pass on any information they may have on these fugitives.”

 

_Fugitives_ , he thinks, but says nothing. “Certainly,” he agrees, instead, “The city of Lestallum doesn’t wish to have anything to do with those who don’t conform to laws and rule.”

 

The soldier nods. “A very good answer, sir. As expected of – law abiding citizens.” He looks around the empty lobby. “Very well, I trust a search of the premises won’t be necessary. For the time being, at least.”

 

He takes good care not to shiver with the unease that settles over him. He shakes his head. “Leave a description with us in the reception and we’ll take note of any by passers. I don’t wish to disturb my guests unnecessarily.”

 

The soldier nods. “Needless to say,” he says, and tilts his head briefly down to reach into a large pocket attached to a thick leather belt that draws tightly around his waist. From it, he eventually procures a craggly scrap of paper. At one point, it would’ve been almost glossy, thickly printed in high definition color not available to them out here, even in the larger outposts. The soldier hands it over.

 

**WANTED**

REBELS OF THE IMPERIAL GOVERNANCE OF THE LAND OF LUCIS **  
**

 

**GLADIOLUS AMICITIA**  
  
Full name: Gladiolus Amicitia  
D.O.B: 02-04-733 (current age: 24)  
Country of origin: Lucis  
Gender: Male  
Length: 6’6“  
Weight: 242 lbs  
Physical trademarks: Brown hair, amber eyes, was last seen wearing a variation on the Insomnian Crownsguard attire, as trademarked for the former Crown Prince’s party, in the RHS-14 Audi R8 belonging to the former Crown Prince of Lucis.

_Affiliation of the heretic former Lucian monarchy. Employed at the former royal court of Insomnia. Servant of the former Crown Prince of Lucis, Noctis Lucis Caelum, as his sworn Shied and protector. Was, at the time of his escape from Imperial custody, accompanied by Ignis Scientia, the former Crown Prince’s sworn advisor and retainer, and Prompto Argentum, a civilian affiliated with the former Crown Prince. Last seen as the driver of the RHS-14 Audi R8 belonging to the former Crown Prince, unlawfully breaking through the northernmost Insomnian blockade._

  
  
**IGNIS SCIENTIA**

Full name: Ignis Stupeo Scientia  
D.O.B: 07-02-734 (current age: 23)  
Country of origin: Lucis  
Gender: Male  
Length: 6’0“  
Weight: 170 lbs  
Physical trademarks: Light brown hair, green eyes, was last seen wearing a three-piece suit, in a variation of the Insomnian Crownsguard attire, as trademarked for the former Crown Prince’s party, in the RHS-14 Audi R8 belonging to the former Crown Prince of Lucis.

_Affiliation of the heretic former Lucian monarchy. Employed at the former royal court of Insomnia. Servant of the former Crown Prince of Lucis, Noctis Lucis Caelum, as his sworn advisor and retainer. Was, at the time of his escape from Imperial custody, accompanied by Gladiolus Amicitia, the former Crown Prince’s sworn Shield and protector, and Prompto Argentum, a civilian affiliated with the former Crown Prince. Last seen as a passenger of the RHS-14 Audi R8 belonging to the former Crown Prince, unlawfully breaking through the northernmost Insomnian blockade._

  
  
**PROMPTO ARGENTUM**

Full name: Prompto Argentum  
D.O.B: 25-10-735 (current age: 21)  
Country of origin: Country of birth unknown, registered lone refugee coming into Insomnia as an infant  
Gender: Male  
Length: 5’8“  
Weight: 142 lbs  
Physical trademarks: Blonde hair, blue eyes, was last seen wearing a sleeveless variation of the Insomnian Crownsguard attire, as trademarked for the former Crown Prince’s party, in the RHS-14 Audi R8 belonging to the former Crown Prince of Lucis.

_Affiliation of the heretic former Lucian monarchy. Civilian adoptee of an Insomnian archaeologist couple. Known as the former Crown Prince’s close companion, though unaffiliated in terms of employment. Was, at the time of his escape from Imperial custody, accompanied by Gladiolus Amicitia, the former Crown Prince’s sworn Shield and protector, and Ignis Scientia, the former Crown Prince’s sworn advisor and retainer. Last seen as a passenger of the RHS-14 Audi R8 belonging to the former Crown Prince, unlawfully breaking through the northernmost Insomnian blockade._

 

 

Accompanied by the short informatory lines are sharply detailed head shots of all the men: young men, all of them; sharp jaws and noses, somber expressions on the two latter, whilst the former – Gladiolus Amicitia, the prince’s protector, is caught in a snarl. The poster ends with a detail sketch of the reported getaway vehicle, a glossy, high technology sorts he’s never before seen.

 

He accepts the poster. “I’ll keep it visible here at the front desk. How does one get in contact?”

 

The soldier cocks a hip, resting one leg temporarily. “There’ll be a stationary guard in the marketplace. There are also open phone lines, as well as an emailing service, for those inclined to prefer digital means. It’s at the bottom of the page.”

 

It is, indeed: small script details three different numbers, all with a Cavaugh area code. The email address is simply a tip line that ends in a gov.lu-provider, just as any other government-linked service would.

 

“If you have any other questions, the guard detail will, as previously explained, be stationed within the marketplace.” The soldier inclines his head, the first sign of what is otherwise commonplace manners. “Now, I’ll thank you for your time, and wish that we don’t encounter any unpleasantries in this fine establishment.”

 

He bows his head. “Likewise, and agreed, sir.”

 

The patrol goes cross-courtyard twice every day after that: at early dawn, when they switch shifts, and at the cusp of twilight, when the sky is a brilliant blend of orange and bright red, the sun sliding low on the lip of the faraway slopes of Mt. Ravatogh. He doesn’t notice the presence of the army as such after that, but keeps, in the back of his head, always the faces of the fugitives – the defeat in the lines of their mouths, the anger in the clench of the protector’s carved chin.

 

*

 

The hunter limps up the steps at midday, the following Wednesday. It is the worst state he has seen him in thus far: his left arm is in a makeshift sling, looking largely self-constructed, fashioned out of strips of dirty plaid fabric. He drags his opposite leg after himself, which makes it look more like a torn muscle or tendon, than a break or sprain. On his head, to darken his features into any run of the mill hunter, is a black cap. A sooty streak colors his chin, and three red welts mark the length of his unprotected throat.

 

He startles out of his afternoon planning. “Sir – “ he proclaims, and hastily rounds the front desk. “Are you in need of medical assistance? I can call someone here right away.”

 

The hunter flinches, badly, and hurriedly takes a step back. It looks as though made without the conscious decision to do so behind it – a reflex movement. It still makes him abruptly come to a stop. He extends one hand cautiously before him. Luckily, the remainder of the Leville is empty as it always is during this hour, so the alien exchange doesn’t draw any unwanted attention. “Apologies,” he says, “I mean only well.”

 

The hunter swallows. He nods, jerkily. “It’s – it’s fine. Thank you. I’m fine. Or, will be.” He shrugs in half, as though the other shoulder is out of function. Popped out of its socket then, he guesses. “Just need some rest, ‘s all. Sorry for the scare.”

 

He looks the hunter over dubiously. “Are you certain? The medical personnel stationed at the power plant are – discreet, and most of them well enough used to a hunter’s ailings. I’ve said it before, I think – those of your profession are uncommon to linger, but we’re not unfamiliar with what you do.”

 

“It’s not – it’s not that.” The hunter shakes his head. “Most of this is just flesh wounds, anyway. And I have a friend – “ he gestures towards the sling, “She’ll make a quicker job out of this,” and, at his glance, which must look unsure at best, he articulates, clearly, “ _Really_. I’ll be fine. I appreciate the thought, though. It’s just what I do. Sometimes, you take a hit.”

 

He is still unwilling to allow the hunter to just walk away, looking like he does. He backs slowly away, though, to allow the young man the space he obviously desires. “Very well,” he allows, eventually. “Would you at least allow me to take the signum of your companion, so that I may ask her how you’re faring, once she arrives?”

 

The hunter nods his consent. “That’s fair, I suppose. Wouldn’t want someone dying in one of your rooms. That’s bad luck,” he says, a little self-deprecating, but hurries to continue, “Though – I’m not dying. So, that’s not very likely. My friend – her name’s Monica. Works with the Meldacio hunters, but was kind enough to come out here and lend me a hand.”

 

“Is it needed?” he asks, because, so far, he’s spotted this one and only one lone, other hunter, in the town. It’s been a long while since last he saw more of them passing through. “I don’t think people realize the situation has grown so dire.”

 

The hunter waves a hand in dismissal. “Not so bad,” he replies, “The region overall’s got a daemon problem, so it’s probably a good thing we’re not overpopulating just one area.” He gesticulates about, as though indicating for a larger space, “Cleigne’s a pretty large place.”

 

“That’s fair,” he consents. “Still, know that we’re very grateful for all that you do. All of you. This town wouldn’t feel so safe without you doing what you do, I imagine.”

 

The hunter tilts his head. “That’s why we do it,” he says, though, there’s a discordant note in his voice, a hollow chalked out in the space where otherwise, he thinks conviction should lay. He says nothing, and doesn’t pursue the thought, but there is always something with the young hunter that strikes him as – layered; as something more than simply a wayward hunter, with simply hunter motifs. The hunter was not born, he thinks, to lay his life down in the battle against the monsters populating the plains on dark nights.

 

As the hunter waves his goodbye, he thinks, unprompted, of the schooled strokes of his handwriting. Of the place of birth, scripted Insomnia, and wonders at how this came to be the life he chose to lead.

 

*

 

He sticks the poster, smoothed out beneath a heavy weight, into a makeshift screw-in frame, and puts it gingerly atop the front countertop. People mill through, and appear interested in what it says, sometimes whispering between themselves. But it doesn’t result in anything. He receives no information pertaining to the hunted from neither colleague nor guest, and he sees nothing suspicious himself. Not in the hotel, and not about the townscape.

 

Twice a day, the Imperial patrol makes their rounds. The troopers don’t speak, so they never stop by to question him. They linger at the base of the stairs, sometimes, and seem – though impossible to truly tell with the face plating – to glance once extra towards the lobby. After a while, they always turn, jarring and mechanical, and make their way back to whence they came, in the mouth of the closest alleyway.

 

The hunter stays barred in his room for two days. During this time, he does not see him, and neither does any of the other staff. Not the cleaners, who refrain from knocking, the Do Not Disturb-sign firmly hung on the doorknob, and not the front desk staff. The door to room 3F remains shut.

 

*

 

On one balmy afternoon, a young woman steps through the entrance. The curtains billow behind her in a rare show of an actual, non-manufactured breeze.

 

She stops just short of the short end of the front desk, and smiles, once he sees her, and welcomes her in. “Sure is hot, isn’t it,” she says, and makes a show of fanning herself with one hand.

 

He agrees. “Indeed. Though I’m afraid to say it won’t get any better, if it’s a bother. This is actually a rather cool day.”

 

She laughs – a chiming sound, with a clarity like tolling bells. “No worries, I actually kind of like it.” She looks around, and then back to him, “Are there any rooms available that can house three, or more?”

 

He briefly recalls jotting down the available rooms earlier on his shift: none of the double rooms are, as of now, available. “I’m afraid not,” he shakes his head, “Not the standard rooms, at any rate. We have several singles still available. Of course, there are three of our Royal Suites still unbooked. Though, I have to say, it is rare to receive a request for either of those rooms.”

 

The girl, who can be no older than fourteen or fifteen, hums. Her lips move, though he can’t discern what she says, but he would guess she’s counting beneath her breath. “Well…” she says, haltingly, “I’m not _loaded_. But we do have some money to spare. How long until a double room becomes available?”

 

He swiftly checks off the calendar. “The next opening for a regular double is three days from today.”

 

She nods. “So, three days in one of the suites… It’s 300 per night, right? That should be doable.” She searches one of her pouches, attached to a utilitarian-looking wrap belt that hangs off her waist. From it, she eventually procures a patterned cardholder. “D’you accept cards, or just cash?” she asks.

 

He makes a double take, without actually meaning to: gil is counted in heavy set coins and bills. The only city in the entire country that accepts monetary storage on plastic cards, as he understands it, is Insomnia, its technological advancement well ahead of the remainder of Lucis.

 

“Unfortunately, we only accept gil, m’lady.”

 

The girl nods, shrugs a little. “I guessed,” she simply says. She shuffles through the slim pockets on her wallet, until she emerges with a slim quiver of bills beneath her index finger and thumb. “Nine hundred for three nights, then?”

 

“That is indeed correct,” he replies, “Before any transaction is made, I’d like to ask you to fill out a few forms for me. Though, this is dependent, I’m afraid, on age. We are only permitted to book rooms in the names of those who are above the age of legality.”

 

The girl, who’d been in the process of forking over her savings, ceases. She seems to consider this. “Hmm,” she says. “Well, that’s no problem, but my guardian won’t be along for a few hours…”

 

Again, without meaning to, he wonders at what guardian leaves such a young child to travel all alone to a foreign city. It is, however, none of his business, so he quickly banishes the thought. He clicks up the hotel’s e-mail inbox. They have no requests pertaining to any of the suites incoming, at least for now.

 

“You can wait here,” he offers, “While I reserve the room for you. I can’t have you on the booking form, but if there is someone incoming who can, then it shouldn’t be a problem.”

 

The girl brightens again, strikingly white teeth slipping into a wide smile. “That’s really nice,” she says, “Thank you so much. But actually, I was thinking of exploring the city while waiting. Any special sights I should be checking out?”

 

He gives her a town-spanning map, and circles the points he thinks she should visit: the Partellum Market, the power plant, Pegglar Outlook, and to take a stroll down to the main road plaza, to check the food stands and the stores lining the walls, if she’s interested in local cuisine and crafts.

 

“If you’re going,” he says, to the girl’s already almost retreating back, “May I take your name, so as to reserve the room under someone your companions will recognize.”

 

“Oh, sure!” she turns around again, “I’m Iris.”

 

He scribbles it down on a note, along with _Royal Suite #1_ , on a piece of torn paper. “Iris,” he repeats, “A last name?”

 

The girl – hesitates. She opens her mouth, and shuts it again. Something in her face minutely changes – a shift so brief it’d be almost unrecognizable, lest you were looking for it. “Iris,” she repeats, and then, “Hester. My granddad and cousin’ll be along. They’re also Hesters.”

 

He writes, _Iris Hester_ , crossing out only the single name at the top, that’d he’d initially written. He smiles up at her. “Then, Iris Hester, the room is secured. I hope you’ll enjoy Lestallum until your family comes along.”

 

*

 

The young hunter has been staying with them for three weeks, on the day, when he comes along one morning, pack shouldered and set of keys jangling in his hand, a briskness to his step.

 

“Good day, sir,” he greets. He nods, shortly, to where the hunter has also procured his wallet, “Are you checking out?”

 

The closer the hunter comes, the more he senses that something is distinctly – off. He carries himself stiffly, neck almost craned as to be able to look around himself, whip around, should something come up from behind. He nods, and drops the keys on the countertop. “Yeah,” he says, “It’s time that I – “ he stops, and shakes his head, as though ridding himself forcibly of the remainder of the sentence. “New places to go,” he finishes, stilted.

 

He inclines his head. “Very well. It’s been an honor housing you. It’s a great service you do our country.”

 

The hunter purses his lips, and pulls a deep breath. Some of the tension seems to, temporarily, scale off him. “Thanks,” he says, like an admission pulled out of him, “I just do what’s got to be done.”

 

“Well, not many do just that – what’s got to be done. It’s doing a disservice to yourself to not acknowledge that without you, a whole lot of people wouldn’t manage to sleep well at night.”

 

It doesn’t ease the hunter’s troubled expression, but it does force him to consent to at least as much.

 

“How much is it that I owe,” he mutters, and thumbs through a wad of bills, “I’ve lost count of the days.”

 

“Not counting today – since it’s only noon, you’ve stayed with us for twenty days. The first thirteen you’ve already paid for, which leaves seven days – a week.”

 

The hunter nods. He slips half an inch’s worth of bills from his wallet. “So, seven hundred evenly.”

 

He taps 3F on the virtual booking pad, already visible on his screen, and erases the question mark on the resident’s period of stay. He’s firmly checked out, with this, no longer an active resident within the Leville establishment.

 

“Thank you sir,” he says, and accepts the bills. He recounts them, just to be certain that it’s the correct amount, and neither too much, or too little. “Would you like a receipt of your stay?”

 

The hunter shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, “That won’t be necessary. Thanks, anyway. It was – I had a great stay.”

 

“I’m pleased to hear that,” he replies. “I won’t keep you – of course. But, is there anything else? You won’t be needing anything? Means of transportation I assume you’re able to procure, being a man en route, but nothing else – for the coming journey?”

 

The man, who’ve busied himself with rifling through the invisible contents of his pack, shakes his head. He looks briefly up again. There’s a small, tilted smile on his face. His hair is – he thinks, a little shorter than a few days ago. As though he’s needed to alter his appearance. It makes him look older, the lack of obscuring fringe, now parted neatly to the sides of his forehead. “It’s fine, I – “

 

His eyes catch on something farther down the counter. Something draws tight over his face, becomes, for a second, open and raw, almost horrified –

 

He looks in the same direction, alarmed by the swiftness in the hunter’s expression, in his statue, which has gone rigid.

 

The poster.

 

The three men of the Crown Prince’s affiliation, their colored in faces, blonde and pale and dark brown. The snarling bodyguard, and the troubled friend, and advisor.

 

“What – “ says the hunter, haltingly. At his feet, his pack has slouched into an indiscernible heap.

 

He doesn’t know what to say, truth be told. If it’s – if the hunter, who hails out of Insomnia, knows any of the three men. If it’s simply a reaction to seeing citizens of your place of birth so plainly vilified, out here, where normally, life is so severed, and cut off, from the politics and happenings of the Crown City.

 

Before he’s able to conjure up something he can say, or do, the hunter snaps out of his momentary daze. He shakes his head, and snatches his lilting pack from the ground. When he says, “Thank you, again,” his face is turned away. From the pack, which he slings over his one shoulder, he’s procured the black cap he’d seen him wearing, a week ago. He shoves it, a little shakily, a little forcefully – so unlike the hunter, who handles anything with grace, whose lithe steps are impossible to pick out from a crowd, onto his head.

 

“Safe travels, sir,” he says, though the words seem discordant, sawing off of an atmosphere that suddenly drops in temperature. That does, the least of all, need words to fill it in.

 

The hunter nods, jerkily, and twists on his heel. An injury can no longer be discerned in his step, as though it weren’t just a handful of days prior that he had trouble standing up.

 

He looks down, onto the disc, and sees –

 

“Sir!” he exclaims, grasping the man’s forgotten wallet, so abruptly was he to get away from there. But when he looks up, the man is no longer there. What takes another man several paces just to reach the ajar front doors, this man makes in the space of a second. The curtains flap, limply, in a non-existent breeze.

 

He takes loping steps, thinking that even if the man had broken into a run, however unlikely that seems, he may still catch him on the cusp of the courtyard.

 

The sun is setting, when he halts in the mouth of the entrance. The sky is streaked purple, and the brightness of day has faded to streaks of mottled bruises behind the spear of the power plant.

 

The man is no longer anywhere to be seen. No matter how hard he looks, into the growing shadows of the alleyways in all cardinal directions, there is no head of so dark hair that it appears almost blue, to be seen. No scurry of his linen backpack rounding a corner, no soft, knowing thumps of feet, quick on their way, that echo between the stone facades of the nearby buildings.

 

The man, as though he were a ghost, is gone. Somehow, he doubts he will ever see him again.

 

*

 

He keeps it safely tucked away in the cabinet in the staff room, where no one will think twice about a forgotten wallet. Sometimes, though he knows it’s an odd habit to partake in, he swipes a thumb over its faded corners, over the buttery soft leather of the front. It’s unmarked, simply black, rectangular. He doesn’t open it – there’s most likely some sort of issued identification document contained within, but he won’t do the hunter the disservice of opening it. Not with how he’d taken off.

 

On some days, when work doesn’t keep him as it usually does, he thinks that were it not for the wallet left behind, he could almost imagine that the hunter were a ghost. An unusually lurid figment of an otherwise unremarkably ordinary mind.

 

But there it lays, the wallet, the lone piece of evidence that proves it isn’t just a trick of the eyes. Of the mind.

 

And over the weeks that follow, when at times, he catches a flash of the news that tell of the land-scale manhunt underway for the three fugitives that he has pictured on his front desk – the urge grows stronger, and the itch grows more persistent, that he open the wallet, to find out what lays within. It might be nothing, he argues with himself. But then, his self argues back, it’d be nothing, and the curiosity – that would be sated.

 

It is during one particularly slow, droll night shift that he takes the wallet from its usual reside on the shelf in the cabinet.

 

The leather is, as always, soft and giving beneath his touch, and its corners are slightly faded. Bits and pieces have started to fall off, from where it’s the most scratched: the slightly limp ears of where it can be parted, to open it up.

 

He hesitates. Puts the wallet away, down on the sub-countertop that stations his supplies.

 

It’s an even more odd disposition to actively avoid opening it. The man forgot it here, and he can hardly see him coming back to retrieve it: perhaps it is an invasion of privacy, but then again, he does have a sheaf of paper that supposedly states who the man is, from his very first visit. It’s his odd parting that leaves him doubting that any of the information he left was remotely correct.

 

He purses his lips. Takes the wallet in hand again. And flips it open with a decisive flick of the wrist.

 

The first few cards are plastic: its peeking edges thickly black, whilst another and gold-coated. One is blue, and one is laminated, its edges worn down. He thumbs them up to see, and reads: LucEx, on the black and the silver cards. On the blue is what looks like a behemoth outlined, ridged to the touch on the front of the card. It doesn’t read any brand in particular, but when he slides it up wholly, the bottom says “Use for free entrances to the Crown Arcade.”

 

The final card – the ID card, is the most worn. It’s also the only card not wholly in plastic. He carefully pinches it between thumb and index finger, and takes it from its card slot, at the very bottom of the wallet.

 

The tiny, square frame of a picture on the left of the card depicts the man, but much younger than he must be now. His fringe is swept sideways carefully, to reveal the proper features needed for a means of personal identification. The blue of his eyes stands starchily out from the pale, carefully arranged features of his face.

 

He looks past the picture, to the information section of the card.

 

**CITY OF INSOMNIA**  
Municipal Identification Card

**ID NUMBER**       12790340000114

**NAME**  
Noctis  
Lucis Caelum

**ADDRESS/ZIP**  
1 Citadel Square  
Insomnia, IN 10003

**DATE OF BIRTH**  
08/20/755

**EYE COLOR**  
Blue                 

**HEIGHT**  
5’9”     

**GENDER**  
M

 

Once he’s read it over twice, and scanned the name another time, for good measure – he puts the ID card away again, slowly, surely. He palms the wallet shut again, and locks it inside of the cabinet. Stores it in the very far back, behind a deck of mint, unused envelopes, and a few loose trinkets gathered over the year.

 

There, he allows it to lie, and banishes it firmly from memory.

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> cat's out of the bag, i'm de-anoning here: this is a companion piece to an upcoming fic, based off of a kink meme prompt ([here](http://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/3451.html?thread=3078267#cmt3078267)) about the chocobros meeting omen!noctis. it's set ca in the middle of the fic, which takes forever since it's basically a behemoth now split into several arcs. please bear with me, prompt!op, and take this as an apology for me dragging the original prompt fic to hell n back in terms of length.


End file.
